


It Only Hurts

by wammysrunaways (fireandwhispers)



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-01 11:57:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15773649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireandwhispers/pseuds/wammysrunaways
Summary: They were supposed to take on Kira as one; to leave Wammy's together, as they'd always done, as Mello had promised they would.Yet some things are worth breaking promises for.Written for the Matt/Mello Week on tumblr, for the prompt 'Goodbyes'.





	It Only Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to E, without whose invaluable insight and advice this probably wouldn't be posted at all.  
> All the fics for this week are at least partially inspired by and named after a song; for this one it was 'It Only Hurts' by Default.
> 
> _Can hold my breath only for a little while  
>  'til reality starts sinking in  
> Once again I'm settling for second best  
> Turn the page and skip to the end  
> To where I swore that I would try  
> Since the last time I crossed that line  
> In the back of my mind I know_
> 
> _It only hurts when your eyes are open  
>  Lies get tossed and truth is spoken  
> It only hurts when that door gets opened  
> Dreams are lost and hearts are broken_
> 
> _I know what you're feeling, it's hard to believe in  
>  Someone, someone who's not there  
> I know that you're waiting, 'cause love is worth saving  
> But only for so long, so long, so long_
> 
> _I swore that I would try  
>  Since the last time, the last time_

The leather duffel bag weighed down on his shoulders as if he was Atlas himself. Mello's head was bowed as he stood in front of a door he knew almost better than his own; from the small indent at the bottom he'd kicked into it when they'd been having a fight, to the small M&M cut into the top left corner (there was an odd irregularity after the last M, as if something had been filed away).

He forced himself to take a large step back from it, pressing himself against the opposite wall, the temptation of that promised knock briefly overwhelming him.

Matt couldn't get caught up in this. He was all he had left now L had--now L was _gone_ , and he had to stay safe, coding his programs and playing his games in the shelter of Wammy's House.

He wouldn't know what to do with himself if Matt also--

Mello squeezed his eyes shut, unable to even finish the thought, the mere concept making his blood run cold.

He crouched down to the small slit under Matt's door, and looked at the picture one last time--or rather, the utterly blank back of it. He had wanted to write at least _something_ , some explanation; a goodbye; he'd even stoop down to an apology; but the words simply wouldn't come to him.

It didn't matter, anyway. No explanation or apology would ever have Matt forgive him for abandoning him. That, even more than leaving him behind, made him clench his hand into the fabric of his bag against the agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

He was destroying everything he had built up over the years with the only person remaining that had managed to kick down his walls after his sister died, getting almost as close to him as she had been. Maybe he'd even reached that level, Mello pondered, for a moment trying to compare the relationship he'd had with Mariya to the one he had with Matt. He frowned as he couldn't quite make it work; they refused to overlap, to be likened to one another. His twin had been an intrinsic part of him. He had felt half of himself fading as the smoke took her, screamed as he felt flames licking at him as the fire reached her body; whisps of memories, the fragments he kept desperately trying to hold on to even as their edges cut his hands all that remained, while Matt was... _Matt_. Mail. The one thing he _could_ hold on to, when everything around him crumbled. His anchor. He quickly shook his head. She was dead, no matter how much he tried to keep her alive, keeping his hair the exact style they'd always had it, so he could look in the mirror and on a good, dark night _see_ a phantom of her looking back at him--but Matt wasn't, and he was going to make sure he stayed that way.

At last he started to slide the photo underneath Matt's door, centimeter by careful centimeter, listening with his eyes closed and an ear to the door for any sign of Matt being awake. It was the safest place he could possibly think of to keep his picture. He could have destroyed it, yes, but something inside him resisted the idea, remembered how proud Matt had been when he'd finally won him over, his victorious grin as he took his picture. It was all he could give him to remind him of their friendship. It was pure selfishness, really, to give him this memento when he knew it would likely be torn to pieces upon discovery.

Well. That was another way to keep it safe, he supposed.

The weight of his bag seemed utterly disproportionate as Mello got to his feet again, as if it was trying to keep him down on his knees, forcing him to pray for forgiveness.

For one brief second, his hand flitted over his mother's rosary, and he wished that despite their father not being religious, their parents had raised them Catholic, after all. At least he'd have had something to believe in, a force that could absolve him of this.

Then again, Wammy's House would probably have stomped his faith out of him either way.

And he deserved no absolution.

 

* * *

 

The dark shadow of the place where he'd spent half of his life towered over him, and Mello couldn't help but look back, overcome by melancholy. An unexpected sting of bitterness struck him. Wammy's House had fucked him up, he knew, fucked him up badly, but it had also rescued him from the streets, given him an education he couldn't have dreamed of anywhere else--and, most importantly: Aurélie, Matt, L, and...

He took a deep breath. Two of those were now dead ( _breathe_ ), a third long lost to him, and he was about to tear the last out of his life as well.

So many times he'd wished for a way out of this place, wished for a life where he could just be himself, with Matt, and--and L. When he first entered Wammy's House, skin over bones and glaring at anyone that dared to so much as glance at him; in spite of everything, at least he'd known he'd never end up on the streets again, forced to wonder every single morning if his nightly dumpster diving would turn up a sealed rice dish just past its due date or a lovingly prepared stuffed chicken that had barely been touched except for the maggots crawling all over it.

And now, not only had he lost L, but he was throwing away his best friend like a puppy bought for Christmas, and voluntarily exposing himself to those same streets he'd sworn he'd never face as a homeless kid again.

Mello forced himself to look forward, pushing away the painful burning in his chest.

He wasn't a kid anymore. L would have been counting on him to avenge him. He had to look out for Matt, and for--his nails dug into his palm. For _everyone else_ at the House Kira might target. He had responsibilities now, true responsibilities; not simply making sure he got the highest scores on a test, or writing a groundbreaking thesis. He had a purpose, people to _protect_.

The blond threw his bag over one of the lower, unstable hedges, and it landed with a near inaudible creak of leather on soft grass. His nimble limbs had scaled the iron gate in less than a minute, and moments later, Mello had disappeared into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Matt shot upright as the first notes of the _Final Fantasy X_ victory tune burst from his cell phone. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins as if he hadn't just spent the past six hours in an uncommonly deep sleep--he remembered flashes of a pale face, dark eyes and a hand ruffling his hair--he shook his head so hard he felt faintly dizzy.

He had work to do.

 _They_ would have work to do, he thought, and excitement shot through him, overriding the lingering grief that he couldn't allow himself to be overwhelmed by right now. He turned on the specially-made dim light on his night stand, rolled out of bed, making to grab the bag he'd prepared hours ago. Matt was just about to open it again to do a last-minute check, when--

Something out of the corner of his eye reflected what little light there was in the room, and he turned his head to his door to find a shiny piece of paper slipped under it.

Fear fell over him like little stalactites of ice assaulting his stomach.

He didn't need to get closer to know what that piece of paper was. The photo was burned into his mind's eye, an eternal reminder of that day he'd been able to dare Mello to let him take his portrait with Linda's polaroid camera, swearing that he'd protect it with his life. He didn't need to get closer to see that defiant smile, those beautiful eyes boring straight into the lens, fearless.

He didn't need to get closer to know what this meant; didn't want to, because looking upon what he already knew lay there would make it _real_.

He didn't need to.

He did it anyway.

It took all of Matt's willpower not to crumple the photo in his hand as soon as he touched it--he rushed to turn it around, hoping that there would be something written there, a number, instructions, a place to meet up--

Nothing.

The picture fluttered to the floor.

 

* * *

 

He was unsurprised to find Mello's door unlocked. He felt for the dimmer he'd installed himself a few years ago, but a hunch kept him from turning it. When the light switched on, it was to the precise intensity Matt could bear without his goggles.

_You planned every detail of this._

He felt nothing as he saw all necessities missing from Mello's room. He walked to the deep drawer where the blond kept his chocolate stash, and found it empty. The thick book of Oscar Wilde poems that Mello knew by heart had a square hole cut into the pages, which would usually be filled with allowance he'd saved up over the years. Nothing.

_All of it._

Matt was grateful for his brain in that moment, shock preventing him from a complete breakdown. He sat down on Mello's--theirs, so often--bed, carefully made, and stared vacantly out in front of him.

 

* * *

 

Sure, silent steps took him to a room that only a select few ever entered. Matt knew the hinges of this door creaked, but he hadn't considered informing its occupant of his plans anyway.

It was likely he had already predicted this would happen, at any rate.

Matt took the only existing picture of Mello, tracing the lines of his face with his thumb, biting his lip as traitorous tears sprung up in his eyes.

He crouched down, and the thin photo slid under the gap between the door and the (overly-expensive, he'd always absently thought) hardwood floor.

It would be safe with Near. Safer than with him, anyway; he couldn't take any risk with Mello's life. Matt knew basic self-defense, liked his knives and knew where to point the right end of a gun, but much though he hated to admit it, much though the blond had often loved to tease him with it, he _was_ as good as a shut-in, and didn't know what the outside world would bring him.

He was just one kid chasing after another.

He briefly considered writing a note, but then felt the bitter reminder that Mello hadn't bothered to do so either.

 

* * *

 

A mere three hours and nine minutes after Mello left Wammy's House behind him, Matt had done the same.

He wasn't fast enough, of course. Mello had planned this meticulously, had long disappeared. As Matt sat with balled fists on a cold bench several streets away from the orphanage, waiting for the first bus out of Winchester, he vaguely wondered if _now_ he was allowed to cry. He had lost his brother, best friend (a wretched voice in his mind perversely willed him to unearth all those _other_ feelings he had tried so hard to keep buried over the years), and just left his other brother _and_ his only other friend behind, all in less than 24 hours.

Matt wiped under his goggles, swallowing thickly. His pity party would have to wait until he was somewhere safe.

He understood Mello's fucked-up logic; understood why he had done what he did. He had wanted Matt to stay away from Kira, to stay nice and sheltered in his room at Wammy's while Mello went out and put his life on the line all by himself.

_Like hell._

If Mello genuinely thought Matt would let him go that easily, clearly his Ranking needed to be re-evaluated.

They'd called him Mello's shadow, sometimes, particularly on days he wasn't all that talkative to those apart from the blond himself. He knew they meant it as a sneer. An easy insult.

Matt took it as a badge of honor.

There was no shadow without the brilliance of the sun. Likewise, a sun could not help but cast a shadow: sometimes faint, the edges so soft when it rose it was hard to see where the shadow ended and darkness began, other times black as night, lined off hard enough to cut when it would blaze from above; but constantly, inextricably tied together.

Mello had always been the sun. That was obvious to anyone who had eyes. Matt had no problem staying in the background. The shadow working in the soothing dark provided by the sun.

They'd remain connected one way or another, he thought as his bus pulled up--a part of him took comfort in the fantasy it was the exact same one that Mello had taken two, maybe three hours ago--and heaved his bag up on his shoulders.

Always.

**Author's Note:**

> For more Death Note shenanigans, my tumblr's username is the same one. Thanks for reading!


End file.
